


Doctor's Orders

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Canon typical blood and gore, Car Accidents, Concussions, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Minor Injuries, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: Gil grabs the emergency blanket and both of them crawl into the backseat, as far from the cracked windshield as possible. Even with the doors closed, there's still a cold breeze that whistles through the twisted metal frame and splintered glass, cooling the interior far more than Gil was expecting. It's cold enough that he's not sure they'll make it through the night if no one comes for them.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

The hunt for their killer becomes a state-wide affair when the sixth body drops. The victims have been increasingly high-profile, which means the commissioner, the mayor, even the governor, have been coming down hard on every precinct in the state, urging them to do whatever it takes to catch their killer.

It's not even as though they're unsure who it is. By the time the third body was discovered, all signs pointed to one man: Ryan Gillespie.

Ryan's daughter had been brutally murdered just over a year ago, but, through a series of mishaps and ineptitude, through a justice system that's inherently flawed, her murderer — Aaron Ashford — was released on a technicality.

And Ryan decided to get his revenge.

It started with Aaron Ashford and was followed soon after by Ashford's arresting officer. The lead detective on the Gillispie girl's case was next, aiming the police investigation towards Ryan. After that, both the prosecutor and the defence attorney were murdered, a sure sign that Ryan blamed absolutely everyone for Ashford's release. And then, only days ago, the judge from Ashford's trial was discovered by a cleaning lady, laid out on his king-sized bed.

All of the victims suffered the same cause of death. Exsanguination as a consequence of the removal of their hearts.

The powers that be are more than a little apprehensive about who's next on Ryan's hit list. Which is how Gil and Malcolm land in upstate New York in the middle of a blizzard, chasing the most promising lead they've had in weeks.

Ryan had been caught on camera forcing a New York state senator into his trunk just a few hours ago. With the help of intermittent traffic cams and a little bit of luck, Gil and Malcolm catch up to Ryan just off the freeway, leading to a high-speed chase through increasingly deserted roads as the blizzard rages around them and travel becomes nearly impossible.

The treacherous conditions, however, do nothing to slow Ryan down.

Gil and Malcolm keep as close as they can, the speedometer hovering chiefly around the sixty mark, even going as high as seventy on the straightaways. It's far above the speed limit on the side roads and, given the icy conditions, it's downright dangerous. But there's an innocent life hanging in the balance, and Gil and Malcolm are both well aware that losing Ryan now means another body. Gil sure as hell isn't going to have that on his conscience, especially not when they're so close to taking this guy down.

Reception is spotty as they whip through the countryside, but Malcolm does his best to keep the team updated as to their location and progress as Ryan leads them from side road to side road, clearly hoping to slow them down as they plough through drifts of snow and slide over icy asphalt.

Gil eases up on the gas as they approach a swath of fog that reduces visibility to practically nothing in a matter of seconds, knowing that they must be nearing a river for that much fog to gather so suddenly and in such a focused area.

But it's when Ryan's car hits a patch of black ice, spinning wildly on the two lane road, that everything goes to hell. Gil slams on the brakes to avoid the hood of Ryan's car as it streaks past their bumper — a blur of pine green that they barely even see through the fog — but the sudden lurch has them losing traction as their wheels lock on the fresh ice.

"Shit, kid, hold on!" Gil shouts, eyes darting to Malcolm's face for a fraction of a second before landing on the road again, just long enough to note the wide-eyed and ashen look that's taken over Malcolm's features.

While Ryan's car tips over the edge of the bridge, headlights shining straight up into the sky before disappearing completely, Gil's car slides down the embankment just next to the bridge. The car picks up speed before it crashes into the line of trees that border the river, the front end wrapping around one of the barren tree trunks, keeping them from plunging into the icy stream as well.

Gil doesn't remember much immediately after that. The world becomes a black hole, sucking him into the darkness for what could be minutes or hours. When he wakes up, it's with a raging headache and a throbbing in his chest that makes breathing a damn sight harder than it ought to be.

Worse than that, though, worse than anything he could possibly imagine, is the empty seat beside him.

Gil's head is fuzzy enough that he needs several seconds to realize that the passenger door is open wide, that there's no Malcolm-shaped hole in his cracked and spider-webbed windshield. 

He doesn't wait to check himself over, doesn't wait to check his surroundings. Instead he tosses his door open, the crushed metal grating and groaning as it catches on its hinges. 

"Malcolm!" he calls out, trying to push himself from the car only to be trapped by his seat belt as it jerks tight across his bruised and battered chest. He falls back against his seat with a groan, fumbling with the buckle to free himself.

The latch is jammed, refusing to give as he smashes down on the release button, but it's as he struggles to free himself that he becomes aware of the grunting sounds of exertion coming from nearby. When he looks up, he's barely able to make out Malcolm's form in the ice-capped river, struggling to haul something heavy and water-logged from the sluggishly flowing stream. 

"Bright!" Gil shouts, straining against his seat belt for a moment before remembering the emergency belt cutter in the glove compartment. It doesn't take long to cut through the restraint, but by the time he does, Malcolm is already out of the water, sopping wet and dragging the senator onto the rocky shoreline.

"Kid, are you okay?" Gil asks breathlessly as he stumbles down the gentle slope to where Malcolm is panting and struggling to catch his breath as he leans over the senator and checks for signs of life.

"No pulse," Malcolm huffs as Gil drops down beside him. "Ryan's gone. I saw him take off over the ridge."

Malcolm hunches over the senator, one hand over the other with his fingers interlaced, ready to perform CPR, but Gil can already tell something isn't right. As soon as Malcolm pushes down, his suspicions are gruesomely confirmed.

The compression breaks right through the senator's ribs, Malcolm's hands sinking into the void of the man's chest cavity. 

They don't even need to unbutton his shirt to know that his heart has already been removed.

Malcolm jerks his hands back like they've been burned, a look of absolute horror contorting his features as watered-down blood drips from his hands. The senator's shirt is bunched inside the cavern of his chest, snow pooling in the indent in a way that sends a shiver shooting down Gil's spine, one that has nothing to do with the below-freezing temperatures.

"Jesus," Gil whispers, dipping his head and closing his eyes against the grisly sight for half a second, centering himself to face the worst of what humanity has to offer.

When he looks back up, he notices the ice crystals that are already forming in Malcolm's hair, sees the way his body is shaking with a fine tremor that rocks him from head to toe as the water drips from his sopping frame.

"Look, there's nothing we can do for the senator," Gil says, rubbing a hand over his goatee. There's already flakes of snow piling up on the hair there, falling to the ground as he pulls his hand away. "We need to get you out of the cold. Now."

Malcolm nods absently but it takes a moment before his eyes really seem to focus.

"Um. Yeah. Okay," he says, looking down at his hands and then over to the river. "Just give me a second."

Gil doesn't particularly like the idea of Malcolm submerging any part of himself in the icy water again, but he understands the need to rinse the blood from his hands. It doesn't take long, thankfully; the water is cold enough that Malcolm can only dip and scrub his hands in short bursts, wincing each time he does, but the blood is fresh enough to come off easily.

By the time Malcolm is shaking water droplets from his hands, the snow is falling so heavily that Gil is worried they're going to lose visibility altogether soon enough. He makes a mental note to ensure neither of them get separated or move far from the car until the worst of the storm has passed. The last thing they need is to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with no cover at all.

Which makes him wonder just how well Ryan Gillespie is going to fare.

He doesn't dwell on it long. Right now, his _only_ concern is getting Malcolm dried off and warmed up, and then getting them to safety.

"Come on, kid," Gil says as Malcolm trudges back up the slope from the river, drying his hands on his scarf as he walks. "Let's get back to the car."

"Are you okay, Gil?" Malcolm's eyebrows draw in, creasing his forehead as he finally looks up at Gil. His concern is clear as day, but Gil doesn't understand why he's worried at all. The confusion must be evident on his own face, because Malcolm gestures to Gil's head and says, "You're bleeding." 

The rush of adrenaline from waking up after the crash and then finding Malcolm with the senator is starting to fade and, now that Malcolm's pointed it out, he seems to remember just how much his head hurts.

"I'm fine," he says, lifting his hand to his head and gently prodding the tender area, unsurprised when his fingers come back coated red and sticky. "I'm more worried about you."

Which is nothing new, really. He's always worried about Malcolm. The kid has a tendency to get himself involved in life-threatening situations so regularly that Gil almost expects them at this point.

That doesn't mean he worries any less. 

"I'm fine" Malcolm's mouth moves on auto-pilot to deliver his standard response. Both men wince at the identical (and completely unbelievable) answers regarding their current state, but Gil brushes it off for the time being.

"Come on." Gil drops a hand on Malcolm's shoulder only to have bitterly cold water bubble up around his fingers as Malcolm's wool coat squishes beneath his touch. His fingers feel like ice almost immediately and he can only imagine how cold Malcolm must be, trapped in the waterlogged fabric. 

They support each other as they walk the short distance back to the car, woefully unequipped for the weather as their dress shoes slip and slide on the half-frozen ground. Gil does his best to keep some distance between them, reaching out with just one hand to steady Malcolm when necessary. He suspects that they're going to need all the dry material they have and doesn't want to risk having to abandon his own clothes when Malcolm's already need to be removed as soon as possible. 

When they get back to the site of the accident, Gil gets his first look at the mangled wreck of metal that used to be his car. The front end is crumpled in where it impacted the tree, the metal crushed and warped beyond repair. The engine is still smoking, but there doesn't seem to be any sign of a fire and Gil counts himself lucky that their only shelter from the storm hasn't been engulfed in flames.

Thankfully, the tangle of boughs overhead helps to limit a little of the snowfall that's cascading down around them, but it's nowhere near enough to actually cut the freezing temperatures or provide any real cover.

And with his car a write-off and Ryan's in the river, they have no way to get to safety. He's not holding out hope on the cell service either. It was spotty out here before the storm even started; he suspects it will be worse now that the blizzard is in full force.

Gil leans into the car and pops the trunk, trying to bite back the groan that claws up his throat as blood rushes to his head at the movement. He finds himself flopping down on the seat as his vision starts to swim, but he covers the action by reaching for his phone in it's cradle on the dash. The last thing he needs is Malcolm fussing over him.

Of course, there's no signal.

He drops the phone on the passenger seat and gets up slowly, making sure he's got his bearings before turning to the back of the car where Malcolm is waiting, arms wrapped tightly around himself as he bounces on his toes, trying to build some body heat beneath the frost that's forming over his skin and clothes.

"Take your clothes off, kid," Gil says as he lifts the trunk and leans in to rummage through his duffle bag and emergency kit, but he freezes in place as soon as the command is out of his mouth.

The words echo those that play out in his fantasies when he's alone at night, and his body takes an immediate interest in where his mind drifts off. He forcefully halts those thoughts and does his best to keep his voice casual as he tacks on, "We need to get you dried off before you freeze into a block of ice."

He finds everything he's looking for quickly enough, but he shuffles things around just a little longer than necessary to school his features into something more neutral before he's ready to straighten up and turn around. When he does, he finds Malcolm looking at him intently, head cocked to the side as his eyes rake over Gil like he's reading a book, absorbing the darkest secrets written inside.

Gil turns back to the trunk and rifles through his bag once more.

"Bright, clothes," Gil says, perhaps a little sharper than he intended. But Malcolm profiling him is not an option. The last thing either of them needs is Gil's unrequited and entirely inappropriate feelings spilling all over the place.

There's a beat of silence, broken only by the chattering of Malcolm's teeth, and then the sound of sodden clothes hitting the blanket of snow on the ground.

"Uh," Malcolm says after a moment. "Now what?"

When Gil looks up, Malcolm is down to a snug pair of black boxer-briefs and his socks and shoes, his arms once again wrapped tightly around him. Without the layers of clothes to conceal his form, Gil is aware of just how badly he's shaking and it kicks him into action. 

"Here, use this to dry off." Gil offers the sweatshirt he keeps in the duffle bag of his trunk. He's got a pair of sweatpants, too, and a couple pairs of socks, but the socks won't be enough to dry Malcolm off and, while he can offer Malcolm his coat once he's dry, he can't exactly offer him his pants.

Not that he wouldn't.

Honestly, if it comes down to it, he'll give Malcolm every stitch of his clothing if it keeps him safe until help arrives. 

He just hopes it doesn't come to that. 

Malcolm, surprisingly, does as he's told without question, but he's shaking so hard that he nearly drops the sweatshirt as he runs it over his chest and abdomen. He barely manages to catch it before it hits the ground, but his hands are so stiff with cold that he's hardly able to wrap his fingers around the fabric.

Gil hesitates for only a second, deciding quickly that getting Malcolm dry and covered takes priority over everything else. "Here, let me," Gil says softly, reaching out to take the sweater which Bright hands back immediately.

Setting his mind to the task at hand, Gil begins to dry Malcolm off, running the fabric along his chest and down the flat planes of his stomach before shifting to work the sweatshirt from shoulder to fingertip, one arm at a time.

Despite the cold, Gil would swear he can feel the heat of Malcolm's blush.

Gil moves around back and quickly scrubs the sweatshirt over Malcolm's hair, soaking up the worst of the moisture before moving to his back, making sure he's as dry as possible from the waist up before shrugging off his own jacket and sliding it onto Malcolm.

"Gil, I can't—" Malcolm protests, though he unconsciously pulls the jacket tight around his body. Even from the back, Gil can tell he's swimming in it, and he tries not to think about just how much he likes that.

"Kid, you're not staying out here nearly naked," Gil interrupts as he leans down to dry off Malcolm's legs. Unfortunately, bending down doesn't agree with his head and he ends up planting one knee in the snow to keep himself from collapsing completely. He hides the unintentional trip to the ground by vigorously wiping down Malcolm's legs as soon as his vision clears. 

He needs to remember that bending over is a bad idea.

"Gil are you s-sure you're ok-kay?" Malcolm asks.

He's honestly more concerned about getting Malcolm warm than he is about himself. He's as certain as he can possibly be that the head wound is nothing major. At most, it's a minor concussion and he's certainly survived worse than that in his years on the force.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Let's just get you dressed so we can get in the car," Gil assures him.

With a little bit of maneuvering, they get Malcolm into Gil's sweats, pulling the string as tight as it goes to keep them up on Malcolm's slender hips, and then ditch Malcolm's sopping wet socks and shoes for both pairs of dry socks and Gil's old runners.

The clothes weren't exactly warm, being stowed in Gil's trunk, but almost immediately Malcolm's shivering becomes just a little less severe.

"That's better," Gil says as he picks up Malcolm's sodden clothes and tosses them in a bag in his trunk. "Let's get in and see if either of us has any service."

Malcolm nods towards the soaking garments in the back of Gil's trunk. "My phone's in there."

Well.

It's not as if they're likely to have reception anyways, so Gil isn't too concerned about the loss, but it's one less resource at their disposal and he's worried they're going to need everything they've got.

Gil grabs the emergency blanket and both of them crawl into the backseat, as far from the cracked windshield as possible. Even with the doors closed, there's still a cold breeze that whistles through the twisted metal frame and splintered glass, cooling the interior far more than Gil was expecting. It's cold enough that he's not sure they'll make it through the night if no one comes for them.

Once they're settled, he gets the emergency blanket wrapped snug around Malcolm, ignoring the teeth-chattering protests that accompany the movement, and then he leans forward to grab his phone once again, praying for cell service so he can call for help.

Of course, there's still nothing.

"Okay," Gil huffs out, tucking his phone away in his pants pocket. "We'll give it an hour. If no one comes for us, I'll head up to the road, see if I can't manage to find a few bars and get in touch with the team."

"You can't go out there," Malcolm says immediately, his gaze darting to the window, to the snow and the fog that's gotten so bad that the river is no longer even visible.

"Well we can't exactly stay here," Gil says, shoving his hands between his thighs in a bid to warm his frozen fingertips.

The rustle of foil fills the small space as Malcolm maneuvers the silver rescue blanket off of himself and spreads it over both of them, pressing right up to Gil's side so that the blanket spans them both, side to side.

"Kid," Gil frowns. He'd rather Malcolm wrap up tightly in the blanket, at least until he's warmed up from his dip in the river, but Malcolm cuts him off before he can object.

"Our combined body heat beneath the b-blanket will work better to warm us both than mine alone," Malcolm says, tentatively dropping his head to Gil's shoulder. "Besides, our best chance of getting out of this is ensuring we're _both_ warm and safe. Especially if you're s-set on wandering through the blizzard soon."

Gil can't exactly argue with his logic.

And so they lean back and wait.

And wait.

With every passing minute, the temperature seems to drop another degree, until they're both shivering, their breath billowing out in white puffs, a counterpart to the fog that envelopes the car. Every tremble of Malcolm's body next to him causes another knot to pull taut in Gil's stomach, until he can't just sit there and wait any longer.

He needs to do _something_ to keep them safe.

(To keep _Malcolm_ safe)

"Alright, city boy, I think I've waited long enough," Gil announces, making a superhuman effort to keep his teeth from chattering as he speaks. "I'm gonna climb up to the road, see if I can get a signal."

Gil pulls the shiny blanket off of him and wraps it around Malcolm, cacooning him in the foil. It's surprising to Gil just how quickly the cold seeps into his bones as soon as he's uncovered. When Malcolm makes a move to follow along, Gil stills him with a hand on his chest.

"Someone needs to stay with the car," Gil says firmly. "If help comes while I'm gone, you can tell them where I went. When I hit the road, I'm gonna walk back the way we came a bit. We had pretty good service just before the crash."

He's mostly just hoping the storm hasn't knocked out cell service completely. If they're merely in a dead zone, he'll be able to call for help once he's a little farther away.

Malcolm is quite clearly displeased with this plan.

"You're hurt. You should s-stay here and I'll head to the road," he offers.

Gil smiles fondly at the kid. Always so selfless. So willing to sacrifice himself for everyone else. It's just one of the many reasons he's found himself falling in love with the man. 

And suddenly his smile falters, the unexpected insight into his own emotional state taking him completely by surprise. He's not sure he's ever admitted that, not even to himself, even if he's suspected it for a while now. 

His head injury seems to be jarring loose all types of thoughts best left buried deep inside of him.

"Kid, you're half-undressed and still frozen to the bone. You're not going anywhere," Gil says, shaking away any thoughts that aren't directly related to their survival or rescue. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"At least take your j-jacket back," Malcolm insists, shrugging off Gil's hand and dropping the blanket long enough to shimmy out of the jacket before Gil can make a move to stop him.

"Bright, no," Gil finally manages to say as Malcolm tosses the jacket back to him. 

"I have the shelter of the c-car, minimal as it is, and the emergency blanket. You need s-something if you're going to have any chance of making it back."

Gil takes the blanket and wraps it around Malcolm's back, pulling the corner up over his head and then tucking the edges around him so he can barely even move. If he's taking the jacket, he's at least going to make sure Malcolm is as warm as humanly possible, even if Malcolm huffs out a disbelieving breath at being bundled so tight.

"Stay put, Bright," Gil says seriously. He's far too aware of Malcolm's tendency to run off into danger at the drop of a hat. The frozen clothes in the trunk of the car are a testament to that. "I mean it."

"If you're not b-back in a half hour, I'm coming out to look for you." 

Gil knows that tone. It's Malcolm's stubborn don't-tell-me-what-to-do tone, and Gil knows that arguing now would be little more than a waste of breath. The kid has a stubborn streak a mile wide.

"Then I better get moving," Gil frowns. He slips his jacket back on, the faint scent of Malcolm lingering on the fabric despite Malcolm's impromptu river bath.

He suddenly feels considerably warmer.

"Be safe." Malcolm's words float to him quietly, barely audible over the howling winds as Gil opens the door and drags himself back into the fury of the storm.


	2. Chapter 2

Gil hurries to close the door behind him in a futile effort to keep the worst of the cold wind from blowing into the car. As soon as Malcolm is sealed inside, though, he pauses, taking a moment to steady himself with his elbow propped on the roof, supporting his weight. The wooziness seems to magnify tenfold with every change in position, but he has no intention of letting that derail his plan.

When the world has straightened out and the black spots fade away, he buttons his coat up and pulls it tight around his throat to keep the cold air off his neck. Then he sucks in a bracing breath and heads for the slope that leads up to the road.

It's not terribly steep, but with the snow and ice — and Gil's dress shoes — he finds himself slipping and sliding down, reverting to crawling up on his hands and the outside edges of his shoes. By the time he makes it to the top, his head is spinning, his lungs ache from sucking in the cold air, and his ears and fingers are frozen and stinging.

He pulls out his phone as soon as he reaches the road, unsurprised yet still disappointed to discover he has no service. Despite the frustration, he doesn't allow himself to waste any time being discouraged. He knows damn well that Bright will be counting down thirty minutes in his head and will most definitely follow Gil out, heedless of the fact that he doesn't even have a damn shirt on.

It takes maybe ten minutes before he finds a signal. Weak, but there. He brings one hand to his mouth, huffing slightly warmer air over his fingers so that the touch screen registers them, and then he's dialing Powell, shivering in the middle of the road as snow and ice whips around him, pelting his exposed skin as the wind rages and attacks and tries its damndest to knock him over.

"Boss?" The anxious note in her voice is audible even over the static-laced connection.

"Powell," Gil says, his heart beating double-time as soon as she speaks. He talks fast, knowing the call could drop at any second. "We were in an accident, near the river. The senator is dead and Ryan took off."

There's a harsh bout of static, but Powell still responds quickly. Unfortunately, her words come back choppy and severed and Gil is left wondering if his own message was received in much the same way.

"...cident? Are...y...jurd? Wh...ight?" Even with the halted sentences, Gil can hear the worry in the fragments of words that make it through, and he's pretty sure he knows what she's asking.

"We're okay for now," he shouts into the phone, as if that will help the words carry through the line in one piece. "But hypothermia is going to be a problem real soon."

He doesn't take the time to mention that frostbite is _also_ going to be a problem, sooner rather than later. He's trying quite hard not to worry about just how cold his extremities are and just how bad things could get if he doesn't get out of the elements soon.

"We...you. Do...spec...tion?" Dani asks, but before Gil can answer — the best he can do is assume she's asking for location coordinates or anything else to help narrow down their exact position — the call drops and the line suddenly goes dead.

"Shit," Gil curses under his breath. He tries to call again, but he no longer has any service.

He debates for only a moment. If he walks back any further on the road to search for a signal, Malcolm is going to come looking for him. Gil may be willing to risk frostbite or hypothermia himself if it means getting help for Malcolm, but he's certainly not going to risk the kid wandering around half naked in a blizzard.

So he tucks his phone back in his pocket with fingers that somehow sting while feeling entirely numb, and he starts walking back the way he came.

Progress is slower this time. In the amount of time it took for him to make the call, his muscles seem to have seized up and frozen, and every step back seems a hundred times more difficult than it did on the way there. 

He's shivering so hard that his abdominal muscles ache in a way they haven't since he joined the police academy, when he had to complete an absurd number of sit-ups everyday as part of his training regimen.

Since there's nothing he can do about that, he merely shoves his hands as deep in his pockets as they'll go, hunching his shoulders up so the collar of his jacket covers his earlobes, and presses on. It feels like he's been walking for hours before he realizes his biggest problem at the moment isn't the threat of his muscles giving out. It isn't even the freezing temperatures that he knows will become life-threatening soon enough.

It's the fact that he can barely see a foot in front of his face. If it weren't for the occasional tap of his shoes on the asphalt as the wind blows the snow in drifts over the road, he wouldn't even be sure he was still following the road back to Malcolm. 

Suddenly, he's unsure if he's walked too far, or still needs to carry on, and his head is fuzzy enough to make him question if he's even walking in the right direction in the first place. When he'd stopped to talk to Dani, he'd been angling himself left and right, back and forth, hoping to find a stronger signal.

What if he went the wrong way? The idea slams into him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

He knows he doesn't stand a chance if he doesn't make it back to the car, but worse than that is the idea of Malcolm coming to search for him and ending up in the exact same predicament.

"Not an option," he says to himself, the wind whipping the words from his mouth before they've even passed his lips.

He knows he either needs to keep going or turn back, because staying put is out of the question. 

It takes a moment to order his thoughts, but then he slowly sidesteps to his right, sliding his foot along the ground and kicking through the piles of snow until he feels pavement give way to grass beneath his loafers. It'll be harder to walk here, but at least he knows he'll hit the guardrail when he gets near the river.

Assuming he hasn't already passed it.

All he can do at this point is hope that his intuition is right. That, and keep going.

So he trudges, slowly, through the mounds of snow that are building on the shoulder of the road. His feet shift from a painful pins-and-needles sensation to a troubling numbness, but then, his face is already in the same state. He can't feel his cheeks at all, despite keeping his head down and sheltered from the worst of the wind.

The cold seeps in through his skin and beyond the muscle, freezing the blood in his veins and sinking into his bones. The colder he gets, the more trouble he has shaking the ridiculous notion that he'll never be warm again (he blames _that_ mental spiral on the cotton that seems to be filling his head at the exertion from his little hike).

His muddled and slightly ludicrous thought process comes to a grinding halt when he hears a call from up ahead, so faint that he's not entirely sure he hasn't imagined it.

"Gil!" 

He pauses for half a second, trying to decide if it's merely a figment of his imagination, but he finds himself calling back before he's even finished considering. "Bright?"

"Gil," the voice comes back immediately, a little louder this time and with an urgency that makes his heart quicken in his chest. 

"Bright, stay put!" Gil shouts and begins to run, struggling not to trip over cold-numbed feet. The last thing he needs is Malcolm being lost out here, too. "Call out," he says, winded from the cold after running for nearly a minute.

"I'm here," Malcolm's voice comes from his right and down a ways, presumably down the small embankment at the side of the road.

"Are you still near the car?" Gil calls out, worried that Malcolm may have gone wandering. He doesn't wait for an answer, though, before he's barreling down the embankment, slipping and sliding as he goes.

"Yes," Malcolm calls out and then suddenly the kid is right in front of him, wrapped up in the foil blanket and shaking like a leaf. "It's been t-thirty minutes."

"For the love of—" Gil huffs and tugs Malcolm into a firm hug, overwhelmingly grateful that he's still alive. "Car. Now."

In a matter of seconds, they're back in the relative safety of the back seat, but Gil can't seem to stop shaking, and the rattle of the foil blanket says Malcolm can't either.

"You s-shouldnt have come looking f-for me," Gil says as he rubs unfeeling hands together, trying to use the friction to create some warmth. He can't actually be angry, since Malcolm is the reason Gil made it back to the car so quickly, he just hates that the kid put himself in danger. For him, no less.

"And you s-shouldn't be wandering around in a b-blizzard," Malcolm smirks while his hands sneak out from beneath the blanket and wrap over Gil's, bringing their combined ice blocks to his mouth and breathing warmth into the cage of his hands, in order to warm Gil's. 

Now that Malcolm isn't holding the blanket closed, it's sitting drooped over his shoulders, showing off toned abs and firm pecs, and Gil knows that now is not the time to admire the view, but his eyes travel down nonetheless. It only takes a second or two, however, before he realizes Malcolm is losing precious body heat like this, and he gently extricates his hands from Malcolm's grip to grab hold of the blanket ends and tug them closed.

"G-gotta k-keep you warm," Gil explains as Malcolm just stares at him.

There's a beat of silence in the car, stretching and filling the space with a weight that has no right to be there. And during that time, neither man looks away from the other for even a second. Gil feels like he's trying to read something deep inside of Malcolm, but can't quite decipher the language in which it's written.

He wonders if he's an easier book for Malcolm to read.

"Did you get through to the team?" Malcolm asks eventually, keeping his jaw clenched to stem the chattering of his teeth.

"The connection was bad, but yes." Gil blinks himself back to the present, shaking off the moment of — whatever that was — that just passed between them. "I think they know we were in an accident, so they'll be coming. We just need to m-make it through the storm. No one is going to find us until it's over."

"Right." Malcolm glances at the near whiteout conditions outside the car. It would be reckless to send a search party now, not to mention that someone could pass right by them and not see the car. "We're on our own."

"For now," Gil assures. "They'll be here as soon as it's safe."

"Probably just before it's safe, actually," Malcolm smiles. JT and Dani can be just as reckless as Malcolm when their team is in danger and they both know it."

"Probably," Gil agrees with a smile that sits oddly on his face. His cheeks are still frozen. "Either way, we n-need to keep warm until help arrives."

"Uh. Yeah, about that," Malcolm says, dropping his eyes to his knees, "I think our best chance of conserving enough body heat to ensure our survival is to huddle together."

Gil's brain short circuits.

"Not entirely naked," Malcolm hurries to clarify, "that would be...awkward."

Gil isn't exactly surprised by the suggestion; sharing body heat is, logically, a reasonable solution to their predicament. But the idea of getting nearly naked with Malcolm is more complicated than Gil feels comfortable admitting or, much less, explaining out loud.

He's about to suggest that maybe it should be a last resort, when he really takes in Malcolm and sees how cold the kid looks. There's a bluish tinge to his skin wherever it's not bone-white with frost, and more tiny little icicles have formed in his hair. Most disturbing, though, is the fact that Malcolm isn't even shivering anymore.

"Yeah," Gil finds himself saying. "Come on."

Gil shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the side, then pulls off his turtleneck and the t-shirt beneath it, shivering hard at the loss of what little warmth he had. Malcolm immediately takes the sweater and lays it flat behind Gil's back so he's not leaning against cold leather. 

Malcolm's eyes land on Gil's chest with a worrying intensity, and Gil follows his gaze to find livid bruises forming across his body from the strap of the seat belt. 

"It's fine," Gil assures, hoping to ease away the deep crease between Malcolm's eyebrows.

It doesn't work. But Gil can't dwell on that right now. 

"How do you wanna…?" Gil asks, gesturing between them.

"I could maybe. Um. Sit in your lap?" Malcolm says, so tentatively that Gil's heart swells at the words.

"Uh. Yeah. Okay," Gil says. Uncrossing his arms to make room for Malcolm.

It's slightly awkward as Malcolm hauls himself over, and Gil feels a little like Santa all of a sudden with the way Malcolm is sitting on his lap with both legs dangling off one side. They don't even have a chance to get settled before they realize the angle is all wrong and they won't be able to manage enough skin-to-skin contact to keep them warm.

"Oh," Malcolm says, a small blush sweeping over his cheeks, giving him some much needed colour. "I think, maybe, we need to…"

A little bit of rearranging and Malcolm is straddling Gil's lap, knees bracketing Gil's hips in a way that he's imagined more than once, but he viciously derails that entire train of thought before it can travel any further. They take off the blanket for a moment, just long enough to get Gil's jacket draped over Malcolm's back. The tiny sigh that escapes Malcolm's lips as the meager amount of heat trapped in the jacket sinks into his skin brings a smile to Gil's face.

They work together to get the emergency blanket sealed around them, wrapping it over Malcolm's back and tucking either edge behind Gil. Before they really hunker down, Gil wriggles an arm free to grab hold of his t-shirt and toss it over Malcolm's head, a last ditch effort to keep the kid from losing any more body heat than he already has.

Then there's nothing left to do but wait.

Wait, and attempt to ignore how nice it feels to have Malcolm pressed up against him.

Gil lets his head fall back against the seat, lets his eyes flutter closed, as Malcolm tucks his face into the crook of Gil's neck, the cold tip of his nose making Gil shiver with equal parts delight and cold. 

"Sorry," Malcolm murmurs as he pulls back.

"Don't be," Gil nearly whispers, threading his hand through the back of Malcolm's frozen hair and tugging him back down. He wraps his other arm around Malcolm's back and pulls him even closer against his body.

They both ignore Malcolm's quiet moan at the movement.

Gil blames the head injury for his impertinence as he holds Malcolm far more firmly than he has any right to. "You feeling any better? Any warmer?" He lifts his head and lets the question ghost over Malcolm's skin, though his eyelids feel too heavy to pull open again, so he doesn't even bother trying.

"Yeah," Malcolm returns, his voice just as hushed as Gil, "I think it's working."

Gil does, too. The heat of their bodies is building in their tiny little shelter, and he already feels warmer than he has since he first stepped foot out the car after smashing it into the tree. Which reminds him.

"I'm sorry about the accident." The fact that they're trapped in the middle of nowhere, trying their damndest not to freeze to death, is all because Gil lost control of the car. "I shouldn't have been driving so fast."

"It's not your f-fault," Malcolm says, and Gil hopes that Malcolm's increasing shivers are actually a good sign. "We c-couldn't afford to lose Ryan, in c-case the senator had still been alive."

And yet it had all been for naught. The senator was long dead, they lost Ryan, and now Malcolm's life is at risk. Gil can't help but feel the weight of that responsibility hanging around his neck. If anything happens to Malcolm…

"I can't lose you," Gil breathes.

He never meant to say it out loud. Doesn't even realize he _did_ say it out loud until he feels Malcolm go tense in his arms. But he's tired and his head hurts and he's not quite feeling himself and Malcolm feels so _right_ pressed up against him and…

"Gil?" Malcolm whispers against his neck. "Are you...I mean...Do you…?"

Gil forces his eyes open, forces his mind to focus. He could probably play it off as fearing for Malcolm's safety as a friend and mentor and nothing more. But it doesn't sound as if Malcolm is upset by his unintentional confession. He sounds more hesitant than anything. The way he always sounds when something he truly wants is just within reach but he doesn't want to get his hopes up.

And Gil's heart flutters madly in his chest at what that might mean.

"Do you actually want to hear what I mean?" Gil asks quietly, absently running his fingertips along Malcolm's spine. "Because we can drop this conversation now. No harm, no foul."

Malcolm pulls back, just enough to look Gil in the eye, his gaze searching, digging into the depths of everything Gil is.

"I need to know." Malcolm is so close that the warmth of his breath brushes over Gil's face, softer than the words themselves.

Gil knows this might change things between them irrevocably, but if he doesn't say it now, he knows he never will. And he has far too many regrets stacking up in his life as it is.

All he can do is hope and pray that he's not about to destroy the trust they've built between them.

"Kid," he starts, but abruptly changes course. "Malcolm. I know it's not entirely appropriate, but," Gil huffs out a breath, bracing himself for his world to change, one way or another. "I have feelings for you. More than just friendly feelings."

There's more. There's so much more. But it's an awful lot to unload all at once and he doesn't want to scare Malcolm away or make him uncomfortable. 

Unfortunately, from the shocked look on Malcolm's face, that boat may have already sailed.

"You. Wait," Malcolm stumbles over his words, "You have feelings for _me_? Romantic feelings?"

He's at the point of no return, now. There's no playing this off as a product of his head injury, no claiming a misunderstanding of words. It's exhilarating.

It's terrifying.

"Yes." The word is ripped from his throat, feeling heavy on his tongue as it forces its way into the miniscule space between them. 

Saying it — giving a voice to something he's been keeping hidden, even from himself — is cathartic in a way he never would've guessed. And everything just comes spilling out after that first word is dislodged.

"I've had feelings for you — romantic feelings — for a while now. Since you got back to New York, actually," Gil confesses, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to be spoken after being suppressed for so long. "Actually, it's more than that. I think I fell in love with you, Bright. And I know you probably don't feel the same way, and that's fine, kid, it really is. Nothing needs to change between us—"

His rambling, ineloquent speech is cut off by Malcolm's lips — soft and beautiful and painfully cold — pressed against his own. It's the lightest of caresses, but his words splutter and die as his entire being shifts to the brilliant point of contact between them.

"And if I want things to change between us?" Malcolm's lips move over Gil's, the words floating into Gil's mouth and dancing over his tongue.

"Then I think we need to sit down and have a conversation when this is all over. When we're no longer in danger of hypothermia," Gil says. The last thing he wants is Malcolm to make a decision like this when they're not entirely sure they're going to survive the next few hours.

"That's entirely reasonable. Responsible even," Malcolm agrees immediately, but there's a hint of a smirk on his face and Gil arches an eyebrow, knowing damn well the kid is up to something.

"But?" Gil asks, knowing he probably shouldn't.

"But. That doesn't mean we can't do _this_ —" Malcolm leans in and kisses Gil again, more firmly this time, their mouths slotting together like they were made for each other, and it takes everything in Gil's power to keep his tongue in his own mouth. "Right now, right?" Malcolm finishes with a breathy laugh.

"Jesus kid," Gil huffs around a blinding grin. "Suddenly it seems a little less cold in here."

Which is only partially true. There is a pleasant flush washing through him, but since they're no longer pressed together chest to chest, their body heat isn't building the way they need it to. He tugs Malcolm closer, wrapping both arms around his back, dropping a kiss to Malcolm's neck when he feels him do the same.

"That's not a no," Malcolm grins into his neck.

"It's not a no," Gil repeats, feeling oddly light. Like he's floating. "But right now we need to focus on staying warm."

Despite their little cacoon doing its best to capture their heat and keep it inside, Gil understands just how dangerous their situation really is. His feet are numb with cold and his legs aren't faring much better, with the exception of where Malcolm is straddling his lap.

There's plenty of heat there.

But they're losing heat quickly and Gil can't help but wonder if they can make it through the night if the storm continues to rage around them. All he can do at this point is hold Malcolm tight and pray that the storm abates enough that a search party is sent out. Soon.

He winds up dozing in the meantime, his eyelids becoming unbearably heavy, his head turning increasingly fuzzy. Malcolm's weight against him, the warm breaths puffing against his neck, it's comforting enough that he doesn't fight sleep as it comes to claim him. After a while, it doesn't even feel so cold and the tension in his muscles bleeds away.

"Gil. Gil!" 

A light tap at his face has Gil struggling to surface, crawling back from the dark at the panicked timbre to Malcolm's voice. 

"Hmm?" Gil asks, confused all of a sudden about where he is, what's happening. 

"Gil, I t-think you'd better s-stay awake," Malcolm is shaking so hard that it's rocking Gil's body beneath him. Try as he might, he can't quite seem to understand why, since it's far warmer than he remembers it being before he went to sleep.

"You're cold," Gil says, frowning at just how chilled Malcolm's skin is.

"S-so are you," Malcolm says, his breath fogging up between them. 

The temperature must be dropping significantly.

The windows are frosted over, enough that he can't really see outside any longer, but the howl of wind has died down and the car is no longer being battered by it's gusts. He hopes that's a good sign.

"Why're you so cold?" Gil asks. It's not that he's unaware of the situation, just that he doesn't understand why Malcolm seems to be freezing while Gil himself feels...okay.

"It'sss c-cold in h-here," Malcolm shrugs, or maybe it's just a spasm from his shivers. Either way, his bright blue eyes are heavy with worry and Gil doesn't like the look at all.

"We should do...something." Gil attempts to lever himself upright, but Malcolm just pushes him back against the seat. "Shit. Your hands are like ice," he hisses as Malcolm's hands slide against his bare chest.

Malcolm chuckles quietly but soon turns serious. "If w-we don't m-make it out of h-here," he starts, but Gil interrupts before he can say anything else.

"Kid, don't," Gil pleads. This can't be the end. Not for Malcolm. And not when they're just discovering what they really mean to one another. After Jackie died, Gil sort of _faded away_ from life for a while. He was still there, still living from day to day, working, _existing_ , but it was like the colour had disappeared from the world, like all of the sounds around him became muted and distant. He spent years like that.

Things were slowly returning to normal before Malcolm came back to New York. Life began to seem like something he could, perhaps, enjoy again. It wasn't like life before Jackie, not even close, but it was something. He had hope.

And then there was Malcolm.

It was like an explosion of colours and sounds, fireworks that were nearly blinding after so long in the grey. It took him months to realize what that meant, and months longer before he was willing to admit, even to himself, that his feelings ran as deep as they did.

After everything they've been through, he refuses to believe that it's going to end like this.

Malcolm opens his mouth to protest, but before he can make a sound, a wail of sirens cuts through the air and Malcolm's jaw snaps shut as he looks to the rear window, searching for their salvation. Gil doubts he can actually see anything through the frost on the window and the snow blanketing the car, but he understands the urge to look.

"Should we try to flag 'em down?" Gil mumbles, but he suspects it would be a futile effort. His entire body is numb and he's not sure he could move enough to even get out of the car right now, let alone climb that hill again, and he suspects Malcolm is in much the same position.

"I don't t-think I c-can," Malcolm confirms his suspicions.

Fortunately, It doesn't matter, because less than a minute later the driver's side door is flying open and a paramedic leans in.

The extra light that flows in through the open door gives Gil a better look at Malcolm, and he doesn't like what he sees. While the kid is pale by nature, his skin is almost colourless now, with the exception of a frightening blue tinge to his lips and around his eyes. 

Gil has to force aside the cruel voice in his head that whispers that he's seen dozens of corpses that look nearly identical.

"Help him," Gil begs the paramedic. "Please."

"Hang tight, boys. We're gonna have you out of here in no time." The paramedic climbs in the backseat with them, immediately moving to check vitals and assess their injuries.

Everything passes in a blur after that. Gil is fairly certain he loses consciousness soon after the medic arrives and is only awoken by either fear or pain for quite some time after that. 

When Malcolm looses a weak but agonized shout as he's removed from the car, Gil's eyes snap open and he tries to reach out but his limbs refuse to cooperate and a medic is immediately at his side and suddenly he's passing into blackness once again. 

He wakes once more in the ambulance when he's certain he's been set on fire, but the paramedic is quick to push him down as he shoots up on the stretcher. The sudden movement sparks a wave of vertigo and he's out before his head hits the padding below him.

After that, he doesn't remember anything until he's settled in at the hospital, aching all over, with warm saline pumping through his veins along with an overwhelming gratefulness to find himself alive.

That joy multiplies when he looks over and finds Malcolm in the bed next to him, curled up on his side and buried in a heap of blankets, with a matching IV flooding his system with warmth.

"Hey there," Malcolm smiles as Gil looks over. "Welcome back."

"You okay?" Gil asks immediately. Malcolm looks fine, if not a little cold still, but he'd like to know for sure that there's no lasting damage from their accident.

"I'm fine," Malcolm chuckles and adds, "So are you, by the way."

The thought hadn't really occurred to him.

"Hypothermia for us both, with a bonus mild concussion for you. Ryan wasn't so lucky. His body was found a few miles from the river." When Gil doesn't immediately ask for more information, Malcolm adds, "They're keeping us in until our temperatures have stabilized and then we're free to go."

Gil barely even hesitates before he asks, "Would you like to come back to my place? I have that fancy tea you like. And all those blankets that Jackie crocheted."

He doesn't offer cuddling on the couch as an additional option for keeping warm, but he's certainly not opposed to the idea. Assuming it's something Malcolm is still interested in.

"Maybe we could have that conversation?" Malcolm asks, his voice timid and small.

"I'd like that," Gil assures him immediately. He doesn't want Malcolm to think, even for a second, that he didn't mean what he said in the car.

The blush that heats Malcolm's cheeks is an especially welcome sight after everything that's happened. So is the impish smirk that pulls at his lips.

"Maybe we could try a little more of that kissing, too?" Malcolm suggests, sounding perfectly innocent. "I mean. Just to keep warm like we did in the car. It's very important. Practically doctor's orders, really."

"Oh, well if it's doctor's orders," Gil chuckles, relaxing into the bed now that he knows that Malcolm is safe. "Then who am I to argue?"


End file.
